Mercy
by Mooka333
Summary: Daryl meets someone out on a run. A glimpse into what that might look like. One shot. Enjoy!


"Quarter for a smoke?"

Daryl spun to the voice behind him, surprised and jolted with irritation that someone, _anyone_, had managed to sneak up on him. He swung the crossbow up from where it had been hanging near his side and took aim on the person in front of him.

Dark brown eyes blinked at him, a tinge of worry darting through them, and the woman backed away. She put her hands up in a symbol of surrender, waving them a little to indicate peace.

"Whoa, whoa," she said carefully, "It was just a really lame joke." He continued to glare down the length of the bow at her, his own smoke smoldering slowly between his lips. She swallowed hard and looked around quickly, taking a slow step back.

"You alone?" He asked brusquely, gesturing down the street with his chin. She swallowed again, her throat moving jerkily beneath the filthy skin on her neck.

"What?" She asked, and he narrowed his eyes further. "Ain't a hard question," he snapped in gruff irritation, "Where're your people?" She licked her lips quickly, wetting the parched skin there.

"I don't have any," she replied slowly, still speaking like he was a wild animal ready to pounce. Her tone made him angry and he shoved the bow closer to her face. "Got weapons?" He asked, making it clear that if she did, she needed to take them off immediately. He watched her carefully, watched her face flicker as she decided whether or not to lie.

"You don't got people, but I do," he told her, his tone menacing, "So get the weapons off now, 'fore I call them over to rip them off ya." The woman flinched slightly and clenched her jaw shut, the muscles in her cheek twitching. She shrugged her backpack off her shoulders and the weathered lump of it thudded to the ground behind her.

She lowered her hands slowly and raised her eyebrows as she did, never taking her eyes off him. "Reaching for my belt, that's it," she told him, the careful tone still backing her words. He grunted harshly in response and her fingers fumbled at her waist until the leather length of the belt slithered down, taking a knife in a sheath with it, a sheath that had been hidden beneath her coat.

The knife handle clattered against the concrete and she looked down at it quickly, a small amount of regret on her face. When her eyes moved back to his, he could tell that she was afraid. _Should be afraid, approachin' a fucking stranger like that_, he thought, _what'd she think would happen?_

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, when she seemed to realize the bow wasn't going anywhere and his arms were still tight with tension. "I've been away from people for over a month, I think, and I saw you and those other two, and I thought it would be ok. Thought since you had a woman with you, and she looked happy, that it'd be ok," she finished, slightly out of breath, and he lowered the bow a little. The cigarette had burned down to the filter and was too hot against his lips, so he grabbed it and flicked it away.

The burning butt flew past her head and she flinched hard. "Hey!" She cried indignantly, "I did what you asked! I'm not fighting you! Why the hell are you being like this?" He just glared at her, keeping his expression flat. He hadn't meant to flick it so close to her, he'd just fumbled it. Daryl was aware it was a dick move, an aggressive, dominance asserting move. _Somethin' Merle woulda done_, he thought with mild regret.

He heard the familiar rasps of walkers and glanced quickly down the street to see a few of them shambling out from between a couple buildings, likely drawn by her cry. "Fuck," he mumbled, lashing a hand out sharply and snatching her upper arm. She cried out again and pulled back from him immediately. "What are you doing?" She yelped, the walkers down the street responding to her voice with sharp noises of their own. She swiveled her head back, her eyes going wide at the sight.

He didn't wait for her to say anything more, just dragged her towards the building he'd been lounging against when she first approached him. He tossed her through the open door that led to the storeroom of the building, and shut the door behind himself. She halted in the dark hallway, his hand clamped tightly around her arm once again.

"What is this place?" She asked, her voice small in the lightless space. He realized she was afraid, afraid of him and what he might do. He felt mildly ashamed that he'd made a woman feel that way, but still felt that tinge of irritation. _Fuck did she expect?_

"Just keep walkin'," he ordered her. She stumbled on ahead of him, the crossbow prodding lightly at her back, until they reached an open place with dim light filtering through the high, small windows. The storeroom had long since been stripped of goods, but he, Michonne, and Glenn liked to use this space as a sort of home-away-home when they went on their longer runs. Glenn called it the Hilton. They'd dragged in a couple of old mattresses, a battered couch, and a few large bins that contained some supplies for their short stays.

He released her arm and dropped the crossbow. "Got any other weapons under that thing?" He demanded, gesturing at the knee-length, well worn, brown leather jacket she was wearing. The thing was at least five sizes too big, likely belonging to a man before she got her hands on it. She shook her head quickly her chin length hair swinging back and forth.

He regarded her with squinted eyes and a disapproving twist to his mouth. He nodded his head at her. "Take it off," he said shortly, aware that he likely wasn't helping dispel her worries about his motives. Her hands came up to the lapels of the jacket and she jutted her jaw forward a little, trying to look tougher, he figured.

"I left my weapons outside," she replied, her voice strained, "The knife on my belt, and the gun in my bag." He glared at her. "Said take it off," he repeated, gesturing at the coat, "Don't make me take it off you." She took a deep breath and appeared to mutter something to herself, so quietly he couldn't make out the words. He recognized the tone though; she was trying to mentally reassure herself. She yanked the coat off and dropped it to the floor.

Her clothing beneath it was unremarkable, plain black t-shirt with a filthy grey long-sleeved shirt underneath, over top of ratty looking jeans. There were a couple large rips in the denim, one over a knee and the other slicing horizontally across the opposite thigh. Through the frayed holes he saw bright red fabric and wondered what the hell she could possibly be wearing beneath.

The woman brought her arms up, crossing them across her chest, each hand cupping the opposite elbow. "Ok?" She asked, her tone crossing the border from anger to flat out bitchy. He smirked in response and made a slow circle around her, ensuring that she really was unarmed. He noticed the back of the shirt had sloppy, crooked stitching marching across it and paused to wonder why she hadn't just grabbed another t-shirt, there was nothing special about this one. The effort of sewing it, especially when the stitches indicated that she was terrible at doing so, seemed like a waste.

Her posture stiffened and he realized that she probably thought he was staring at her ass. Feeling creepy, he moved back in front of her and pointed at the couch. "Sit down," he told her. She eyed him warily and he stepped away from her, moving to lean against the far wall. When she realized he wasn't approaching her, she slowly backed up and lowered herself carefully to the brown couch behind her.

They were both silent, the woman looking around the room cautiously, Daryl studying her features with frank curiosity. She was pretty, in a tired, battered kind of way. Her dark brown eyes were lively and snapping, but there were distinct dark circles below them. He decided she had probably had a really cute nose once upon a time, likely before the Turn. It was crooked now though, taking away from what would have been a classically sweet snub nose.

He couldn't really tell what her skin was like, she was dirty, dirtier than he was, and an ugly scar split one of her eyebrows, the rumpled line of it moving up to her hairline before it ended. He wondered what had happened to her, who had done this to her. He figured she was likely in her late twenties or early thirties.

When she cleared her throat, his gaze moved from examining her mouth (a nice mouth, plump bottom lip, neatly bowed top lip, a mouth made to smile), to jump back to her eyes. He was uncomfortable suddenly, not wanting her to think anything untoward about him. He wasn't examining her in any kind of lecherous way.

"Why the fuck'd ya come up to a complete fuckin' stranger?" He blurted out, his tone gruff and curious. She opened her mouth to answer and then stopped. She looked away, then down at her hands, before looking back to his eyes. "I already answered that," she told him. He glared at her then and nodded slowly, like he thought she was lying.

"Don't buy it," he replied, "Stupid fuckin' thing to do. You're alive after all this time, can't be that dumb." Another emotion filtered across her features, and he could tell that she was pissed off with him.

"Why is it stupid?" She demanded, "I watched you guys for the whole day, you seemed like good people, like friends!" She crossed her arms again, folding them in a near huff over her chest. "I know bad people, you don't seem like them, I thought it would be safe, thought I could approach you with some humor, ease the tension a bit!" He grunted and looked away, believing her, but at a loss as to what he needed to do now.

Michonne and Glenn would be back within the hour, just before it got dark. They'd gone to a nearby apartment building to gather stuff, and he'd been hunting in the area. The agreement was to return before dark. He didn't think she was dangerous, maybe just stupid. "You really alone?" He asked again, glaring at her. She nodded.

"Why?" He asked. She shrugged and unlocked her arms, letting her hands come to rest in her lap. "My group is gone," she responded quickly, too quickly he thought. "You kill 'em or somethin'?" He asked and then leaned back a little at the horrified, alarmed look she shot him. A look that quickly devolved into stark grief.

"No," she responded quietly, looking away from him and down at her hands. "We were holed up in a school, and it got overrun. Mostly they all died, some got away I guess," she explained slowly, her tone somewhat dead, "I was with my husband and my sister, we got out." She paused and he guessed he knew what had happened to the two of them, if she was alone now.

"They... they both died, and I've been alone for about a month I think," she finished her sad, familiar tale and Daryl looked away uncomfortably when he realized she was crying. He remembered Rick's pain when Lori died, his own pain when he lost Merle; he couldn't imagine both at once and not having anyone else with you to help ease the pain.

"How many walkers have ya killed?" He asked her, the decision about what the next step needed to be being made in his mind. She swallowed hard and scrubbed at her face with the tail of her shirt, wiping away the tears. "What?" She croaked, her tone confused at the question.

"How many of them have ya killed? It's a pretty easy question," he said. She blinked a couple times and then shrugged. "I don't know, like 50? Maybe a little less? I wasn't keeping count," she responded fairly flatly, another half-hearted shrug punctuating the end of her answer. Daryl nodded; Rick would like that answer, he knew.

"How many people you killed?" He asked and her eyes squinted as they rose to meet his. She nodded a little, seeming to realize that there was a reason he was asking these questions. "Do mercy kills count?" She asked, and he took in a deep breath, nodding slowly, impressed that she voiced the distinction, he knew a lot of people wouldn't have.

"Five people," she answered quickly. She wet her lips again and he bit the inside of his lip, not really wanting to prod with the next question. _Rules are rules_, he thought. "Why?" He asked her, voicing the third of Rick's questions. She glared at him, the vehemence behind the look surprising him a little.

"That's a dumb question!" She cried angrily. "Why the fuck would I kill someone except out of mercy or to save my life?" He straightened from his slouch against the wall and waved a hand at her.

"Hey! I don't know you, I don't know why ya'd kill anybody!" He shot back, "Just answer the damn question!" She huffed out a breath and didn't tear her eyes from his.

"My mother, my husband, and my sister - all mercy kills; they were gonna die and turn," she said simply, "The other two wanted things from me I wasn't going to give up willingly, and they paid for it." His mind went back to the weapons outside and he was very glad he'd made her leave them out there.

"I ain't like that," he muttered defensively, and she shot him a sarcastic smirk. "Hey, I don't know you, right?" She shot back. They were both silent then and the quiet stretched out for a long time. He finally broke it.

"We got a place, a big group, you can come back with us, if you want," he told her in a rough voice. He could see the immediate shine to her eyes, a brief glimpse of sky-high hope washing over her, and she smiled at him. He finally got to see her smiling the way her mouth seemed like it was designed to. He swallowed hard at how it changed her features, changed her whole appearance.

It made him uncomfortable when he realized how pretty she was, and that he was really, really into it. "Sure," she replied casually, "Sounds good to me." He grunted an agreement and a lot of the tension left the room. They were again silent. She laughed a little and he looked up at her, wondering what she could possibly be laughing about.

"You never answered my question, and I still want to know," she told him. He shot her a quizzical look and she laughed again, that smile spreading across her face as she continued,

"Quarter for a smoke?"


End file.
